Symbiotic
by Twill
Summary: Wilson is summoned away for a conference, leaving House to wander the halls alone and without his witty sidekick. As the days pass by, House realizes he might miss his friend and starts to wonder what Wilson gets out of their friendship.
1. Absence Leads to Heart Attacks

Well, I'm doing a bit of branching out and trying something new. This is my first House fic, so bear with me if the wit isn't as scathing as it could be. I do my best, but I'm just not as brilliant as he is. Also, I'm probably not going to focus hugely on the medical aspects because I don't really have the time or energy to research conditions, symptoms, treatments, and tests. If anyone would like to suggest places to look, or interesting maladies, I'll certainly check them out and be grateful. Now enjoy

Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D. If I did, the House posse would continually break into people's houses and complete death defying acts, and Wilson would be much love an appreciated by all, with no failed marriages and an awesome, swinging, bachelordom.

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**Absence Leads to Heart Attacks**

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Lunch. The most blessed time of the workday, where one was able to sneak away from the responsibilities of the real world in favor of more carnal pleasures. Food, House mused, was definitely one of the perks of life. When you died, you stopped eating, and that just wasn't right. There should honestly be pudding cups after death.

Sucking the remnants of vanilla off a standard hospital issue plastic spoon, House was at peace. But as is dictated by lady karma, moody woman that she is, all good things must come to an end. A foreboding shadow fell across his small pile of twinkie wrappers and orange juice bottle (so no one could call him unhealthy) and House looked up into the saccharine smile of Lisa Cuddy.

"You're teeth seem whiter than usual, Cuddy," House said blandly, face already scrunching up into his usual scowl of contempt. "Are you hoping to turn your smile into a death ray?"

"You have clinic duty."

"If you managed it, I suppose that means you'd kill me every time you tried to enforce clinic hours that you and I both know waste my talent." He pretended to ponder the implications of his statement. With a slight grimace, he got to his feet and brushed past her. "In that case, smile more often. Death can't be much worse than people who only think they're sick."

"Dr.House..." Cuddy fell into step beside him as House tried to make his getaway. "You try and try to get out of it but in the end, you know it's pointless to fight me. Just do the clinic hours and stop wasting everyone's valuable time." She shoved a thin folder at him. "You could even do it with a smile. Perhaps you'll get the death ray before me."

Rolling his eyes, House grudgingly took the file. "If only I were that lucky. Then I could blow this popsicle stand and terrorize Japan."

"Only you're not fifty feet tall or Godzilla." Pleased with herself, Cuddy quipped a cheerful 'have fun' and proceeded back in the direction of her office. House scowled after her and then glanced down at the file.

And his day had been going so well, too.

---

"So then I told my boyfriend that he was stupid and he only glared at me and said I didn't know what I was talking about. I told him that Jane, that's my friend, had seen a sale at the mall and that I absolutely _had_ to go and buy something because it was too good to pass up..."

House, near comatose, sat staring at a perky red head who had been rattling about her day for the past ten minutes. He couldn't remember what he'd said that sounded anything like 'please tell me about your day in excruciating detail'and was beginning to think this was all some sad joke that Cuddy was playing on him. Revenge was formulating in his mind though it was slowed due to numbing facts about low cut high cut vintage orange tees that currently danced about his brain. Whatever the hell those were anyway.

"And I totally saw the shirt first, and it was totally my size, but this other girl - a total bitch, I could tell - sees me going for it and just snatches it up. She smiles all sweetly and says 'oh, did you want this?' and then runs off to the change rooms-"

"Okay, shut up," House finally cut in, unable to absorb one more detail about female fashion. "I've been sitting here for the last fifteen minutes listening to you babble. Now tell me, what's Cuddy paying you? I'll double it if you go and annoy her for a while."

The girl stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

With a heavy sigh, House frowned. "Oh darn, not on the payroll. That means you're here legitimately, right?" She nodded. "Alright, then. I have one question for you."

"Uhuh?"

"Do you suffer from depression?"

There was a long moment of silence as the new vocabulary word filtered slowly through her thick skull. "Um?" she offered helpfully.

Exasperated, House grabbed his cane and stood. "Are you sad? Do you go home and cry your bitty eyes out every night?" He glowered down at her.

She brightened. "Yeah. That's my problem exactly, doc. You're good."

House nodded curtly. "Yes, I am. But what you need isn't a doctor. Well, not a hospital doctor." He began scribbling something on a prescription pad. "What you need is a psychiatrist." With a flourish, he flicked the slip of paper at her and turned toward the door. "Show that to the nurse and she'll get you sorted out." He hobbled out of the room and closed the door with a snap.

What was it with these people? Apparently the human race was getting stupider by the minute. The red head was the fifth in a series of patients with minor, hardly important maladies. The first was yawning a lot. He was tired. The second was having problems sleeping next to husband who snored. Earplugs. The third was itchy. Mosquito bites. The fourth sneezed every time she saw her boss. Allergic to the cologne. Why was he, Dr. Gergory House, miracle doctor and resident genius, stuck listening to the woes of the stupid percentage of the population?

Distastefully, he eyed the clock. He still had ten minutes left on his sentence of clinic hell. What circle of Hell was the clinic in, anyway? House would put money it was in one of the worst ones, next to the spot where all the murderers would roast for eternity.

He snatched up a file, tossing the red head's down somewhere nearby, and glanced over what was inside. This would make idiocy case number six. It just wouldn't do. House decided it was time for a consult. After all, this could be the start of an epidemic. It was his duty as a doctor to find out just what was causing people's IQs to drop so rapidly. And who better to help him than one Dr. James Wilson, expert regarding tumors that related to the brain?

"I need to make a page," House said to the receptionist nurse, mustering up all the fake sweetness he could. "Dr. James Wilson. Urgent. Needed in the clinic."

She gave him a look. "Dr. Wilson is scheduled to be working clinic right now. In fact, he's in exam room three." She pointed off behind him before going back to her clerical duties.

House was slightly disappointed. The fact that Wilson was handy meant there would be no delay while waiting for him to show up. But there was nothing to be done about it now, except go and politely interrupt and steal him away. "Thanks," he muttered, orienting on the door.

Seven hobbled steps later, House was swinging open the door to exam three, whistling cheerfully, folder clutched under one arm. The expected 'I'm with a patient' response greeted him, only it wasn't Wilson's voice. The whistle halted as House found himself staring at a completely unfamiliar man who was in the process of listening so some bald guy's heart.

"You're not Wilson," was all he could come up with.

Not-Wilson removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked up at House. "No, not Wilson. Dr. Alex Thatcher, cardiology." He extended a hand which House stared at as if it were some alien protrusion. "Did you need something?"

House pointed accusingly at him. "Wilson-napper! What have you done with him? I'll have you know I'm on excellent terms with Cuddy," he threatened. "Don't make me sic her on you."

"I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. I'm-"

"Not going to talk, eh? Well, we'll just see about that." House turned and marched back out into the waiting area. "Dr. Wilson has been kidnaped!" he bellowed loudly at the receptionist nurse. "Call Cuddy."

"I didn't kidnap anyone." Dr. Thatcher closed the door to exam three and, noticing the strange looks from the waiting patients, drew closer to House, lowering his voice. "Dr. Wilson got called to a conference on short notice. He'll be gone for most of the week and I'm filling in for his clinic hours."

House sized him up momentarily and then turned back to the stunned nurse, banging a hand on the desk. "I want to speak to Cuddy. This man obviously hoped to masquerade as Dr. Wilson in the hopes of... of...doing something evil."

"Fine. Call Cuddy." Thatcher sighed. This was hardly what he expected when he'd agreed to take up the extra hours in the clinic.

"Here you go." The nurse handed House the phone.

"Hello darling," House began. "Did you know that Wilson has suddenly turned into a man? No, I mean a different man. Wilson certainly wasn't a woman before." There was a pause. "That's what he said. Are you sure he can be trusted?" House shot a suspicious glance at the cardiologist who merely looked back blandly. "You're sure? Alright, alright." Another pause and House's face fell slightly. "Another half hour? Why?" He was almost whining. "But it's not my fault no one changed Wilson's name on the roster!" He grimaced. "Fine," he grumbled, and hung up.

Thatcher looked expectant. "Well? Am I legitimate?"

"Yeah, you're an ivy league scholar boy with rich parents all right." House scowled at him.

"Great. Now that that's settled..." The cardiologist made to turn and go back to exam three but House would have none of it, grabbing his arm.

"Not so fast. I need a consult." House wasn't pleased that Wilson was gone, but he had a plan, damnit, and he was going to slack out of his clinic duty one way or another. "And you're the lucky guy who gets to do it."

With much effort, House dragged an unwilling Dr. Thatcher to exam two and shut the door. Inside was a man of about thirty, pudgy, and hairline starting to recede. The two doctors stated at him and he stared back at him. House eyed Thatcher, who stared at House, and the patient looked between the two.

Finally, Thatcher spoke. "So what's the big problem?"

A file was held out under his nose. Accepting it, the doctor flipped it open and read the reason for the patient's visit. He glanced up at House, eyebrows effectively communicating his disbelief and then glanced back at the papers to be sure he read it right.

"Um, excuse me... Am I going to get any help?"

"Can't you see Dr. Thatcher is reading? Be a good boy and wait a moment while he finishes," House patronized.

"You didn't make this up, did you?"

House held a hand to his chest and gasped. "I'm shocked. I certainly did not alter the files in this man's folder to read his medical concern is that he's gradually starting to go bald." He shook his head firmly.

"Is it bad?" The patient looked between the two, worried.

"You called me in to consult for this? Why?" Thatcher handed the file back.

"Because you're Wilson's official stand in. Thus, you get consulted when the world is coming to an end." House examined his nails casually.

"It's bad." The man sighed and looked down at his hands.

"You're fine, you idiot!" House whacked the corner of the exam table with his cane, startling both the patient at the consulting doctor. "You're going bald. It happens. Blame your mother. Now get out." The man hurried to obey.

Thatcher raised his eyebrows in askance. "That wasn't very nice. And you wasted my time."

"Blame it on the stupid people. And Cuddy. It's all their fault." House hopped up on the exam table and fished around in his pocket for his mp3 player. It wasn't as good as his game boy or his portable tv, but it would suffice. "You can go now, too. I'm sure your bald guy needs you desperately."

"I think I'm going to ask Cuddy to find someone else to do Wilson's clinic hours," was the cardiologist's response just before he ducked out of the room.

Amateur, House thought as he turned on a rousing techno version of the classical piece, _L'inverno_. Wilson would've joined in with some witty banter, and might've even caught onto House's gripes about stupidity. It was going to be a long week without him, House knew. There was only so much Cuddy, clinic, and everything else a man could take alone. Wilson had better come back soon.

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And there you have it. Dr. Alex Thatcher is co-owned by myself and Duchess Nire, so no stealing. Tell me what you think, and I promise more reflective House musings in the future. And an appearance by Wilson, though not how you might think .


	2. When Life Steals Your Lemons

1Well, I've finally found some time to update this. I really should be writing one of two papers for school, but House called to me too strongly. I couldn't resist. I'll write the papers later or tomorrow or something. Be glad I'm easily swayed from my homework.

As I said in the first chapter, I'm not really concentrating on the medical aspects of this show. I just don't have the time to research interesting conditions and all the stuff that goes with it, so bear with me. I at least can offer you House-wit, in my own way, and the promise of sappy House and Wilson friendship pondering... Well, I'll get to it eventually, anyway.

Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D. If I did, House would have total permission to slap stupid people with his cane, the House posse would continuously do stupid things to encourage the slapping, and Wilson would use his super Wilson powers to defend House's slapping.

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**When Life Steals Your Lemons**

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To park in the handicap space or not to park in the handicap space, that was the question. Morally, House knew he was capable of hobbling into the hospital from one row of parked cars further away than the painted blue squares. But when had he ever cared about morals? With an extra rev to the engine, he glided his car seamlessly into the space.

"Ah, my mortal nemesis," he said wistfully, strolling in through the hospital doors. Within thirty seconds of them closing behind him, House was nearly run over by a woman in a wheelchair, strangled by someone's IV pole, and narrowly missed by some funny colored projectile vomiting. "I see you're well today."

Fighting the rather strong urge to whack people in the knees with his cane, House instead used it to punch the elevator button. He tuned out the chorus of babies that suddenly decided to try and sing the German national anthem in their natural language screams and wails. The doors slide open and he stepped inside. Yes, it was going to be another fun day at work.

House decided that what was in order was a good six hour meeting with his best buddy, champion of boredom eradication, Jimmy Wilson. He proceeded down the hall at his usual breakneck speed and paused when he reached the shiny brass nameplate that signaled he was at his destination. That's when his brain decided to remind him, as it was wont to do, that his good pal was off gallivanting somewhere on hospital money, living the high life in return for mumbling a few words about cancer.

He was pretty sure it could all be boiled down to, "Cancer is bad. Everything can cause cancer. Beware of cigarettes and plastic covering your food in the microwave. And especially don't drink formaldehyde. That's just asking for the cancer fairy to move into your colon."

Surely they didn't need the head of oncology to expand that into a series of lectures that were probably half ignored anyway. He wondered for a moment that if he asked really nicely, he might be able to get a phone number for Dr. Wilson. Then House could charge up long distance minutes and avoid work all at the same time. It was tempting, but he was sure Cuddy would see it a mile away and post orderlies at all phones. Those orderlies probably snuck steroids with no one looking, considering how beefy the appeared.

Instead, House proceeded to his own office, the Fortress of Forts he named it. With any luck, he could hunch down under his desk, catch some z's and not be bothered for the rest of the day. However, luck continued to play hookie. House immediately noticed the presence of his posse huddled around the whiteboard in the adjacent conference room. Oh darn.

"Gee, everyone looks so excited. Are we going to have a slumber party?" he mused as he pushed through the doors. "I'm afraid I didn't bring my pajamas, but I'm sure we can steal some pillows from the coma wing. They won't miss them."

He was privately pleased to see looks of disgust, annoyance, and disbelief pass across the faces of Foreman, Chase, and Cameron respectively. But just as quickly as these trademark expressions had appeared, they were gone and House knew that they were about to pester him.

"House," Cameron began. "There's a patient who has some really bizarre symptoms. I think we should look at him."

House pretended to consider. He had heard cases for strange symptoms before, and more often than not they weren't really all that spectacular. "My horoscope said to avoid anything starting with the letter 'b' today."

Foreman was next. "Then what about catching up on your clinic hours? Cuddy's been bugging us to bug you about them."

House staggered back as if he'd been slapped. "Foreman! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Really, I'm ashamed of you. I thought I'd taught you better than to use such language, especially around women." He indicated Chase, who fought back a retort.

After a moment of getting himself under control, it was Chase's turn. House waited expectantly for his suggestion of how to spend their time. "I was thinking we could take this as an opportunity to catch up on things, like charting and other paperwork."

"And why would I want to do that?"

Chase smirked. "You wouldn't, but you could hide in an empty exam room or something while the rest of us actually work. We'd be more productive that way, with you gone."

"Chase, you wound me so." House clutched at his chest. "But that's an excellent idea. You three can handle my paperwork, too. It's in my right desk drawer labeled 'recycling.'" He turned to go. "Have fun, duckies." With that, House whisked himself out of the room and off down the hall to somewhere the three doctors could only guess at.

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The search for an abandoned room proved to be more difficult that House would've thought. Apparently there were many patients waiting around for organs or blood and so many of the normally empty beds were taken up. Finally, however, he managed to find a wing with a few empty rooms. It was certainly not his first choice at a hideout, but he would have to take what he could get. And thus Dr. House of diagnostics found himself sitting in the middle of a room painted with too many colors in the pediatrics department.

He perched on the edge of a bed and surveyed his new base. He was sure that all the surfaces were crawling with child germs from their endless supply of runny noses, soar throats, and inability to use kleenex. Really, how hard was it to blow into a soft tissue instead of dragging your nose across a scratchy shirt sleeve? House looked at his own sleeve. He certainly couldn't imagine what the benefit of blowing his nose in it would be. It was no more absorbent.

There were an insane amount of cartoon zoo animals plastered on the walls, and grouped together in ways that didn't make sense. Tigers were playing hopscotch with giraffes. How were kids supposed to learn anything with this nonsense searing into their retinas? Now a scene in which a giraffe was being bit in the throat by a hungry tiger, that he could approve. Let the parents worry about explaining why they aren't having a tea party instead.

The last thing House noted was a stuffed toy, abandoned next to the sink where some child had forgotten it after washing up. As he stared at it, it stared back. The thing was puny, a blue and white unicorn that could be squished up in one hand. Whoever thought it was a good comfort toy obviously had bad taste.

Now ignoring his surroundings, House pulled out his precious mini television and prepared for a blissful day of soaps and infomercial after infomercial. Perhaps he'd find Christmas presents for those deserving few who would be getting them. And by deserving few he meant himself.

As he started to settle into a program, something caught his eye. It was another unicorn toy, this one pink and purple, sitting on the bed he was, up beside the lumpy pillow. He glanced at it, and then over at the blue one next to the sink, which was still staring at him with lopsided ears.

Then something struck him. "You got kicked off the bed by the lady unicorn, didn't you? So now you have to spend the night beside the sink in punishment." House grinned. "Well then," he said, pointing at the blue one. "I shall call you Wilson." He heaved himself off the bed and snatched up the toy. Then he flicked the pink one off behind the bed, and placed Wilson triumphantly in its place.

Satisfied, House turned his attention back to his television. However, his day of peace was not to be. Just as a shocking twist was being revealed, an annoyingly familiar voice cut into his thoughts over the P.A. system.

"Attention hospital staff." It was Cuddy. "Would Dr. House please report to my office." She sounded annoyed.

House considered his options. He could remain where he was, feigning that he hadn't heard the page and gain a few more precious minutes to himself, unmolested. But Cuddy would track down his posse and demand to know where he was. Then she would discover their slack day and organize a search of the hospital. This was after she had upped his clinic hours by a million.

On the other hand, if he went, Cuddy would still probably up his clinic hours just because she was Cuddy. Either way, he was doomed. So, House decided to go with the idea that would leave him with less increased hours in Hell. He stood and made his way to the door. Just as he was leaving, he spotted Wilson, fallen on his side with House's abrupt change in position. He couldn't just abandon lonely little Wilson. The pink unicorn might resurface and get revenge.

House returned to the bed, snatched up the toy, and marched off to the executioner's office.

---

"House, do you mind explaining to me why you went out of your way to traumatize Dr. Thatcher?" Cuddy was in her stern pose, arms crossed, standing in front of her desk. In front of her, off to the left, was the cardiologist from the day before.

"I wouldn't say traumatized..." Thatcher looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention being brought to his complaint.

House gestured grandly as he limped to a stop on the right. "See? I didn't traumatize him. I don't even have to say anything and I'm defended. Nature loves me."

Cuddy was not amused. "He had one clinic session with you and he's asking to have someone else cover the hours, which he's already covering for Dr. Wilson." He narrowed her eyes. "What did you do?"

"I asked him for a consult. Is that so wrong?"

"Apparently." Then she noticed the blue and white ball House had wadded up in one hand. "What is that?"

House looked down and unclenched his hand. The unicorn puffed up into its proper shape and looked back at Cuddy. "Him? He's my partner in crime. Dr. Lisa Cuddy meet Wilson the littlest unicorn."

"Now you're playing with dolls? Why am I not surprised?"

House pretended to shield Wilson from her words. "He's not a doll, he's a manly stuffed action figure. I'll thank you not to use such a dirty word in little Wilson's presence."

Now Cuddy grew suspicious. "What have you been doing today? You don't have any patients."

"I was scouring the hospital for Wilson's family. He was kicked off the bed by a nasty pink unicorn and I couldn't leave the little guy all by himself." House placed the toy on his shoulder and, with its added cuteness, looked at Cuddy with his best House puppy-dog eyes.

She sighed. "That's not good enough. Go to the clinic and work off your hours." She turned away from him in dismissal.

Dr. Thatcher cleared his throat and both House and Cuddy turned to look at him. "So, can you get someone else to cover Dr. Wilson's clinic duty?"

Cuddy smiled in what she must have thought was an apologetic way. To House it seemed rather feral. "I'm afraid not. You're the only one available. Just ignore him and he'll leave you alone."

Thatcher sighed and turned to leave. House caught up with him and they left the office together. Just before parting, House narrowed his eyes and glanced around. "That's only what she wants you to think." He flicked his nose and limped off, leaving the cardiologist confused and slightly worried about the clinic sessions to come. He could only hope House wouldn't be around for all of them.

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Well, Dr. Thatcher is becoming more of a regular than I'd intended. But I think it will work out, at his expense. This way House has someone to constantly bother who won't get fed up and leave. That may be that Thatcher can't escape, but I'll pretend it's just 'cause he secretly likes House's abuse.

As promised, Wilson made an appearance this chapter, though not in the way you probably expected. House has found his Wilson replacement, so you can be sure the little unicorn will be around to aid House in his constant struggle against the hospital and its clinic hours. Leave a review and tell me what you think. You might even get me to ignore more of my homework and work on another update.


	3. Nice Guys Don't Run Races

Wow… it's been a while since my last update, hasn't it? You'll be happy to know, however, that this is really the only story up here of mine that seems to be getting any attention. So, hooray for that, eh?

Dr. Thatcher, I think, will be mentioned or appear at least once a chapter, because I sadly can't think up enough filler without him. It pleases me to no end to have House abuse him endlessly, with no way for Thatcher to win. Perhaps Wilson will save him in the end, who knows? And just to clear things up, because it was mentioned in a review, Thatcher is original in design and not taken from any other show, such as _Grey's Anatomy_. I've actually never watched that show. House is the only medical show for me, unless you count C.S.I.

I realize this story hasn't been keeping up with what the summary promises lately, but in this chapter you'll see the beginning of House's musing on his and Wilson's friendship. This will evolve over time until it ends with House ripping off his shirt and yelling, "Wilson!" at the top of one of the hospital's stairwells. Not really, but it makes a good image to think about.

Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D. If I did, Stacy would either resolve things with House or have an unfortunate accident in a broken elevator shaft, House would do stunts on his motorcycle, and Wilson would be hugged once an episode.

Note: Thank you to Corculum for pointing out some typos/spelling mistakes. I appreciate it and I hope I got them all.

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**Nice Guys Don't Run Races**

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"Ah, the clinic," House mused, staring up at benign white ceiling tiles. "So clean, so hygienic, so blinding white. What would my life be without you to remind me that color is wonderful?" He heaved a heavy sigh and looked down at the girl next to him.

Mary Herman, twenty-something, looked at him with a frown. "Who cares?" she offered helpfully, crossing her arms. "Are you done mooning over the room or are you planning to fall in love with the sink next?"

House glanced over at the faucets and gasped. "You have a good eye, if a whiney voice," he said, moving over to gaze at the shiny steel better. "Mr. Sink is a fine specimen of draining might!" He heaved another sigh and stared longingly down the drain, perhaps wondering if he could fit.

"Are you going to ask me what's wrong or not?" came the high pitched whine of his patient. House fancied a room full of screaming babies drawing their itty fingernails down chalkboards would be more pleasant.

House rolled his eyes. _Oh, I know what's wrong with you_, he wanted to say. _You have no brain_. Instead he bared his teeth in his best fake smile and said, "Why yes, whatever is the matter dearest, sweetest Marie?"

"Mary," she said, sniffing indignantly.

"Whatever," he countered, fiddling with the pen his clipboard came with.

"Well you see," she began, eyes lighting up as she lifted her shirt enough to show a hit of bellybutton and a rather unpleasant looking patch of purple, "this appeared a few days ago and hasn't gone away. It hurts to touch, too." She looked almost giddy.

House looked between her expression and the bruise. "And?"

"And I want to know what's wrong."

A golden moment of silence settled on exam room two as House savored the easy in he'd just been given. It would be so simple to chew the annoying baby nail voice out for wasting his time over something so common and trivial. Honestly, a bruise? He thought every person on the face of the planet had been introduced to them during the wee years of childhood.

"You're serious?" House wanted to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. She nodded. "Well, dear, that's what we doctors call a bruise. It happens when you get hit with something that's hard or heavy or thrown with enough force."

"But nothing like that has happened to me lately!"

House considered this for a moment. "Rough sex," he concluded and limped from the room. With how happy she'd been to show off her 'trophy,' he was willing to bet that Mary Chalkboard enjoyed poking the bruise just to feel a twinge of pain. Why was the world filled with such weird people?

He flipped the woman's chart into the waiting pile and strolled out of the clinic. He pulled Wilson the littlest unicorn out of his pocket and stuck him on his shoulder. "The world is full of idiots," House cautioned his little charge. "Watch out or you might catch whatever it is they have. Unless it's a birth defect," he mused. "Then you're probably safe."

House cruised around the hospital, leering at the nurses every chance he got. Thanks to little Wilson, he managed to reduce his count of eye rolls by at least twenty five percent, which to him meant a good day. His tour through Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital concluded in the glass conference room where his posse sat, flipping through files and generally looking hard at work. At least until House swooped in like a large, ungainly vulture making a bad landing on the Serengeti.

Cameron was the first to perk up and scurry at him, sweaty fist clenched tightly onto a manila folder. "House," she squeaked, eyes lit up like a child at Christmas, "I really think you should look at this case. It has unusual symptoms and none of the other doctors that have looked at the patient know what's wrong."

House favored her with a long, withering stare before shuffling around the table, away from Cameron. He stopped, perched over Foreman, and proceeded to poke the other doctor's shoulder. "Whatcha got there, Foreman? Anything good? Does it have unusual symptoms?" He shot a wry grin towards Cameron, who now had her hands on her hips, file still clenched mercilessly.

"If you count age as an unusual symptom, then sure." He rolled his little eyes. "This is a file from a few years ago, which you never bothered to chart properly, or sign, or do any of the other things a responsible doctor would do."

"Good thing you're here then, Foreman. You can be responsible for the two of us." House looked up at the other two posse ducklings. "Either of you want in on this? Foreman can be responsible for you, and we can all go off and have fun."

Chase looked up from a stack of papers he was currently battling against. "Would this be your treat, then? After all, Dr. Wilson isn't here to foot your bills and I hardly think that toy on your shoulder has a pocketbook."

"Don't listen to him, Wilson!" House shielded the unicorn from the others in the room. "I bet you can score me lots of free stuff if you try hard enough, and maybe if I fall down some stairs." He grinned. "Everyone loves a cripple, you know."

"Is there any point to your visit? I thought you were going to hide in a storage closet somewhere until we managed to finish all this paperwork."

"Not that Cameron's been much help either," Foreman said under his breath.

"Alas kiddies, you're stuck with me." House settled himself down next to the whiteboard with a contented sigh. "I just love sitting here watching you do my work." He picked up a dry erase marker and began to doodle.

---

Hours later found House staring, bored, at a whiteboard that had just been erased for the millionth time. Behind him, the constant crinkle and shuffle of paper continued on along side the scratching sound of pens jotting notes or signing off. He sighed, wondering why the day seemed to take forever. Even the littlest unicorn seemed droopy in his spot atop the whiteboard.

_If big Wilson were here, I wouldn't be so bored_, House mused to himself. _We could sneak away to some hidden part of the hospital, sip coffee, and laugh at people_. On an impulse, House wrote 'Wilson' on the white board and circled it. Then he wrote 'escape' somewhere off to the left and circled it, too. A line connected both bubbles and a little box that said 'laugh at humanity' attached onto 'escape.'

_If big Wilson were here, we could go outside and talk about the good old days, and then remind ourselves that we aren't old and that I have a bitchin' motorcycle to prove it._ 'Balcony' attached itself onto 'escape.' He stared at his diagram for a moment, lost in thought, and then snapped the marker down and stood.

"Don't you ever take breaks?" He asked the three doctors who were half-buried under forms and charts and folders. "Or are you afraid that a little time away means no cookie for you later?" House used his cane to nudge Chase. "Come on, up, up, up! We're going for a walk." He hobbled toward the door. "And look important while you do it, so no one suspects."

"Suspects what?" asked Cameron.

House flicked his nose. "Exactly."

---

"House, why are we in the cardiology wing?" Foreman was tired of following his supervisor around with little more than a 'you'll see' to go on as to what they were supposed to be doing. "Are you hoping to jump into rooms and give people heart attacks?"

"That would be a little heard with the cane, don't you think? But that's why you're here, Foreman. You can terrorize people with scary stories from your child years in the hood." House patted him absently on the shoulder, squinting and looking around for a target. "Aha! The goose has landed. Deploy, deploy, deploy!"

The three doctors stared at him.

"It means move, duh," House said, pushing Chase into Cameron and unsuccessfully trying to guide them into a shallow doorway. "Well, you're obviously not going to become an award winning figure skating couple are you?"

Rather than try and figure out where the skating reference had come from, Cameron tried to see over House into the hospital wing, trying to spot whatever had him trying to cram four people where four people should never be crammed. "Why are we here?"

"Do either of you know where a Dr. Thatcher, cardiologist, lives?" House asked innocently. "I have a wicked urge to T.P. his house, but I'm at a loss as to which of the thousands in this city are his."

"So we're here to steal his personal information?" Chase tried unsuccessfully to remove Cameron's elbow from his side. "Now I see why you brought Dr. Foreman." Said doctor shot the Australian a dirty look which was cut short by a narrow miss between his head and House's cane. "Wouldn't it be easier to look up his record or something?"

"But that's no fun. Only you British like boring things like that."

Chase rolled his eyes. "I'm Australian, remember?"

House put his hands to his ears. "La, la, la, not listening," he sang, eyes still focused on the milling medical staff and occasional patients in the area. He spotted a semi-familiar head of dark hair and grunted, "Aha."

"Have you noticed that he forgets patient's names all the time, even doctors some times, but this guy has been burned into his memory?" Cameron asked Chase and Foreman. "I wonder what he did to get House so riled up?"

"Considering it's House, his being born could well be enough." Foreman nudged House' cane with a foot. "Can we please stop asphyxiating to death in here and go back to the conference room? You can get your revenge later."

House looked back at him in disappointment. "You're no fun at all, though brownie points for using such a big word in your whining." He waved a hand. "Fine, you can go back to your glass house for now. But I expect you free and willing tomorrow, when I will make my move."

"House," started Cameron, "you really have too much time on your hands. If you would just look at this file…" She produced the manila folder from under her hospital issue white coat. House pretended not to hear her.


End file.
